Las’ week I had me a analorskerpy. I’z purty sure that ain’t the teknickle term fer ‘er, but it give a much more cleaner picher than the fancy Dan name they give ‘er.

We’z all o’ us hez got over forty feets o’ ‘testines up inside of us. Forty feet o’ wet tubin’ sercretin’ gasterd acids whilest a’suckin’ nutriments outcher food, then whuppin’ what’s left on thoo to the garbage ‘sposal so’z ya can give ‘er the ol’ heave-ho. An’ when ya hez yersel’ a analorskerpy, ever’ one of them forty foot’z gotta git scruternized. So they gotza li’l ol’ cam’ra set up on the tip o’ what look like a big ol’ copperheed ready to crawl up inside ya.

 Bradley was a pleasant man, he had a pleasant wife
He wore pleasant pants, and he had a pleasant life
He wore his hair quite pleasantly, he had pleasant shoes
He had two pleasant children he never could refuse

He had a house pleasantly, in a pleasant neighborhood
His car ran pleasantly, the way a pleasant car should
In his pleasant yard there played an especially pleasant dog
He commuted pleasantly downtown, to his almost pleasant job

But something was amiss in Bradley’s pleasant world it’s true
And Bradley pleasant Bradley, he had not a clue

Two. In Jennifer. The image made her melt into wet.

It was their honeymoon, and Jennifer and William were laying totally naked in Kawaii, the Garden Island, the sun melting their bones, smell of coconut oil baking on their hot skin, seasalty air floating on the thick breeze, the overgrown tropical paradise intoxicating.

William smiled at Jennifer. Yes, people may be starving, the whole world may crumbling, but at least this one thing worked out.

Jennifer quarter-dozed and half-floated.

Honeymooning.

James burned.

With Mary. With God. With the Devil. With blood fever. Lately Mary came to him every night. Bathed in golden light. Sweet Mary, dripping love, dropping down with the wings of an angel as he lay on his small hard bed, Jesus on the cross behind him bleeding for his sinning. And he would pray to God. That she would go away. That she would come to stay. Flowing crow black hair. Raving raven eyes. Skin white clouds. Breasts secreting the milky blood of Christ.

James sinned.

Jane used to say she was plain. Jane was wrong. Because Jane thought she was plain she used to wrap herself in a plain brown package: plain hair, plain shoes, plain glasses. But as soon as I saw her, I knew I could make Jane scream like a banshee in ecstasy at the tip of me. Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. This is a story about lunatic sex-mad male strippers and a hen night gone terribly wrong.

When I first saw the bulge in the crotch of her panties I was frankly disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I got nothin against a hot trannie, I’m just not built that way. Or maybe it wasn’t a bulge. The black of the moonless night shed no light in the nasty room. Did she/he semi-flash me? I couldn’t be sure. You’re not here for that anyway, I reminded myself. Just get the package and be on yer merry way. Chinese Willy said midnight, there was no room for confusion when Crack Harry delivered the message. Room 43. 11 pm. Felipe’s Massage Parlor. There was no Felipe. No one was here for a massage. Occasionally a man would squeal in pain, and a female voice would berate him. The Snow Leopard. When Shiva Shiv said that was the contact name, I laughed out loud. I stopped laughing when Shiva Shiv said, “What the fuck you laughin’ at?” in a voice dripping of curry and murder. I couldn’t stop thinking about that name. Snow Leopard. That night I had a dream. I was with the Snow Leopard. She was half-cat half-woman. And she was in heat. I could smell it. She kept changing back and forth, from cat to woman and back: whiskers, lips, fangs, tongue, claws, breasts, fur, hair, but all crazy hungry jungle feline sex. She was tearing me to shreds, blood and guts ripped open, even as she was pounding me strokingly into submission. I was dying and coming at the same time when I woke up with a cold sweat and a curtain rod for a johnson. And now here she was. The Snow Leopard. nd when she got up she flashed me. Or did she? Maybe it was just me. Wishful thinking. Wish fulfillment. Not getting laid nearly enough for a man in my line of work. Call it what you like. Long black straight hair. Barely-there black skirt. Black jacket with white spots. Camouflaged. Moving in the dark of the shabby unchic body-fluid smelling room, I couldn’t pin down exactly what she looked like. Asian? African? Mexican? Italian? Spanish? Long nails painted black. Coal eyes. I started to ask if she was the Snow Leopard, but as I rolled it around on my tongue, it sounded like something only a rank rookie would say, or someone who watched too many bad cable movies. I smelled that smell from my dream. The smell of heat. An animal in heat. Shut up and get the package. Where’s the package? She didn’t have a bag, the skirt wasn’t big enough for pockets. Maybe that was the bulge. Or was it a bulge? I fondle the ten grand in my secret jacket pocket. Why doesn’t she say something? She paced like, well, frankly, like a big cat in a cage. And I could hear the beat of the jungle drum. Or maybe it was just Busta Rhymes booming from the next room. I try to explain to people who aren’t in the business why it’s such a fun and rewarding line of work. It’s exciting. I was excited. The blood was pumping. Adrenaline working overtime, I was jacked to the max and stone cold sober. Often when I’m on the job I get what I can only describe as an evangelical feeling, like this is what God wants me to do, like God is watching me and smiling. And today I feel like He, or She, I’m not gender restrictive when it comes to my deity, has brought me to the Snow Leopard to change my life. I can’t explain it really, except to say that this job felt like one of those jobs where you look back from the future and you say, “Wow, that was some job.” Or maybe not. Maybe this was one of those jobs you look back on and say, “I started day dreaming and let my guard down and that’s how I got this scar.” The more we didn’t talk, the more charged the air got, like two saturated clouds bumping and humping and rubbing, the rumbling building as the lightning gathers. I wanted to see her. I reached for the light. This is what prompted the first word we ever spoke. Inevitably that word was: “No.” And she was the one who said it, in that chilled voice of a frosty predator. And so we stood in the dark. “I need your help,” she purred. This was not in the script. When Chinese Willy is expecting delivery of his package at midnight, and it’s 11:13 pm, and ten grand is flaming in your secret jacket pocket, you need to keep your priorities straight. This is an excellent score, and sets up the next score, which is the big score. My dance card is full. Or is God calling me? “Hello, my name is Michael Bradshaw,” I said, trying to cool my way through, “but people call me Mikey the Monkey. And you must be…?” “I got no time for bullshit,” she shot back, those coal eyes glowing, “any minute now two big guys with automatic weapons are gonna burst through that door-” Before she could even get through the sentence, two very big guys with automatic weapons burst through the door. She dropped straight down, behind the bed frame, and pulled out a tiny little pistol. I unholstered, then ducked and rolled, firing as fast as my fingers would fly. I took down the big guy on the left, first shot in the right shoulder, second in the belly, third in the right leg. As he fell he started firing his Glock, bullets spraying around the room like the gun was prematurely ejaculating. When he hit the floor, eye level with me, I got off the shot I’m truly proud of. Plugged him just over the nose. That’s when the big guy’s lights went out. The Snow Leopard had killed quickly, cleanly, effortlessly, with style and grace. As is her wont. One dainty shot. With her tiny gun. Through the left eyeball of the big guy on the right. I was starting to fall hard for this cool kitty cat. As gunsmoke hung heavy, and two very big guys sprawled dead, the sounds of panicked screams from Felipe’s clientele filtered into the room. I kept rolling, pulled myself under the bed, and had my gun at her head in the flash of an instant. Suddenly I was face-to-face under the bed with the Snow Leopard, staring into those cat eyes. I felt something hard poking into my ribs. Lo and behold it was her little gun. Maybe it was the blood splashed on the floor. Maybe it was the thrill of the kill. Maybe it was God. But suddenly my lips had minds of their own. Our hands ravished each other, and before I knew what was what she had me out, fully in hand, then swallowed me whole. A cold metal pressed into my balls. Her little gun. Made my nuts hop like a couple of Mexican jumping beans. As she gorged on me, she dug those long sharp black claws into my chest, that smell of heat, she was animal wild growling from way deep inside her throat. I had to be all the way in her. That’s where God is, I remember thinking. I reached down between her legs. The bugle. In all the excitement I had quite forgotten about the perhaps-imaginary bulge. But there it was. The bulge. Before she knew what was happening I was in her knickers and I pulled it out. It was my package. I pocketed it. Thought of Chinese Willy looking fat and happy when I handed it to him. I rubbed my gun between her thighs and she sighed. My nozzle flirted with her fleshy folds, opened and explored the tip of her. I pulled the cash out of my inside jacket pocket, and as I slipped the money into her hand I spilled into her. She was fierce, biting, clawing and scratching, drawing blood. She put the tip of her little gun on my lips. I never wanted anyone or anything more. I rubbed my gun across her nipples, stroked her throat slow. She kept maneuvering around so she could get at me better, bucking and howling, fast cuz we knew any second that bigger larger trouble could very well walk in. It was in-heat fucking, insane fucking, where time is no more and the mind is no more, and there is nothing else in the universe, even as the universe flows through you and into her then back through you, and then you skydive together off top of the Brooklyn Bridge together. We floated shaking and speaking in tongues together as we landed back on earth. Breathing fire into each other we panted, this close, glowing in the after rapture of it. Funny how fast the brain can work when it has to. Do I walk away? Do I take her with me? Do I run away with her? That’s when she shot me. Through the left eyeball. With that dainty little gun. Now that I’m dead I can honestly say I’m grateful the Snow Leopard did it so quickly, cleanly, effortlessly, with such style and grace. In the end, when you get into this line of work, that’s all you can really ask for.

There is a great looking chicken new to me on the swim team … he looks to be 14. Tall but built pretty well in his chest, and blonde and great smile. I fantasized about his asking me to help him get used to the jacuzzi naked.

This is from the diary of 61-year-old Judge, Ronald C. Kline.

Do you find this shocking and unbelievable?

OR
How I Went From Being a Homeless Underage Prostitute, to a Bestselling Author In Only 25 Years

Lost Sex, Huckleberries, and Heavily Caffeinated Beverages: The Putting Your Passion Into Print 2001 Northwest Odyssey

13 events in 15 days. Here we go. Berkeley Barnes & Noble, we kick off on a lovely sun-drenched Saturday afternoon, followed by a manic 14 hour, 850 mile road race up the 5 in our Rav 4 to Eagle Harbor Bookstore on Bainbridge Island, north of Seattle, where a the drenching turns from sun to rain, a fine mist hanging thick amidst the autumn ruby reds, canary yellows, orange oranges, and of course, the emerald green, green, everywhere green.

Back home again home again, after six weeks on the road: Portland, Eugene, Olympia, Portland again, San Francisco, Palo Alto a half dozen times, Portland once more, New York City, then Belgium: Antwerp, Gent, Brussels, Sint Niklaas, Mechelen, Aalst, Roeselare, Hasselt, Turnhout, Knokke, and Leuven, more NY, then Surfer’s Paradise on the Gold Coast of Australia. And the one thing everyone has in common overseas is that they are horrified by and scared shitless of Junior Bush, they urged me as an American to make sure he doesn’t get to be emperor for another four years. The Sex Worker Art Show was half a gas and half a horror. I did the first four shows with them, and I had a blast, met all manner of fascinating human, played to packed houses. Left the tour in SF, then taught at Stanford for the next month. The first night of class we asked who among the 33 students had an advanced degree, master, or Phd., EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM RAISED THEIR HAND. Me and Arielle were the least educated people in the class. The students were so smart and dedicated and they all had great book ideas, we all liked it so much we’re doing another five weeks in April. Then on to NYC, where I rejoined the Sex Worker Art Show, with the intention of continuing on to the conclusion, only to be blindsided brutally (story soon to follow). Then on to Belgium, Arielle met me at the Newark Airport and we flew over together. We had no idea what to expect. Imagine our delight when we were picked up and swept away to a five star hotel in the ancient sacred heart of olde Antwerpen, the diamond/fashion center of Europe, where waffles waft their magic aroma from street corners, and chocolates croon your name from sweet boutiques. Turns out I was on the Saint Amour tour, bringing together 10 of the greatest writers from Belgium and Holland. And me. I felt like one of those: What’s Wrong With This Picture things. What am I doing here? Well, the whole tour was about love, so I suppose I was somewhat qualified. Strapping Viking poet babes, and dark brooding novelists, a string quartet doing Bach so beautiful it made your balls weep, three glorious gorgeous female singers who do these ancient sounding songs in Polish Dutch and French, they are food for the ears and the eyes. And the grand old man of Belgian literature, Hugo Claus, this guy was once married to the softporn star Sylvia Kristel, of Emmanuel fame, he’s Arthur Miller, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald all rolled into one. And me. One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong. What am I doing here? With me is the other token American Jonathan Ames, a fine fellow performing a story entitled, Bald, Impotent and Depressed. He and I fell in together like peas in pods. Every day we got fed breakfast at the hotel, we talked about writing and art and sex and love and getting rid of Bush, who as I mentioned, they’re all utterly disgusted by and terrified of, then we would wander the city, and at about five we loaded into the van, drive an hour, unload into some gorgeous 500 year old multi-tiered cake of a theater that has acoustics so perfect you can whisper into the mike and it will travel to every ear in the place and back again. At seven we were fed a fabulous gourmet meal. People drank a lot of alcohol. Everyone except me and Jonathan the two sober American freaks. The shows started at eightish. The music is beautiful the singers like angels who tasted a touch of hell. The emcee is a delightfully droll old school intellectual with deep gravel and fine beer in his voice. The terrible thing is everyone reads in Dutch, so I can’t understand a word of it. Eleven nights in a row, hearing what I can only assume are these most beautiful words, and I can’t understand a word of it. In the show I’m last. Jonathan is second to last. Then me. They project the text to Jonathan’s reading, and to mine, on a 20 foot screen behind us in Dutch. The screen consists of 150 antique woman slips sewed together. So every night my Dutch words are projected onto old lady slips behind me while I act them out in English. I closed the whole show with 12 minutes of the Rainbow hippiechick chapter of Chicken, which climaxes with a cork-popping riproaring tantric climax, and that’s how the Saint Amour show ends, with me orgasming my way across Belgium. A little known fact: writers are treated much more like god/rockstars in Europe than in America, and as a writer I have to say, I like that. I came thisclose to trashing my hotel room, that’s how much of a rockstar I felt like. One night out for drinks the great man motioned me over. Hugo Claus wants to talk to me. He’s all white mane and old lion skin, magic eyes dancing inside sagging skin, and ancient scarred voice. I ask him what his poems are about. He nods knowingly and says, “Oh you know, love and war and sex and women and money and ice cream and dogs, things like that.” He’s dry on dry, and got the big laugh outta me. Then he says that I remind him of vaudeville, of burlesque. He tells me in his rich voice thick with age that he once saw the exotic dancer Tempest Storm. She was one of the great burlesque entertainers of the 20th century. Hugo told me about the time he watched her stand perfectly still, and make her breasts swing back and forth, higher and higher, and it was like a beautiful poem, Hugo said, watching her beautiful breasts dance all on their own. He was a gorgeous man, Hugo Claus. We saw five hundred year old cathedrals where holy and unholy ghosts fly around the huge ceiling with all that stained light firing through the windows where angels and saints and devils and saviors act out cryptic religious scenarios. We learned the glorious aroma of waffle wiffling around a corner, grabbing you inside your nostril and towing you into the waffle winkle (Belgium for store), and the astonishing warming quality of a sweet hot waffle on a cold European day. I was so sad to leave Belgium, I could have gone on the St. Amour tour forever. Hanging with those mind-boggling writers, eating that damn-that’s-good food, performing in front of all those rapt and appreciative Belgians in those monumentally exquisite theaters, and actually getting paid for it. A slice of heaven. But Australia was calling. 12 hours back to SF. 30 hours later, it’s 16 hours to Brisbane, DownUnder. Luckily the movies “Love Actually”, and the great Dutch soccer documentary about the two worst teams in the world were playing. G’Day! I was whisked off to Surfer’s Paradise, where I was performing in the Gold Coast Art Festival. The ocean the surf the sand immense and exquisite, of course it’s summer DownUnder, so it was balmy breezy, easy on the senses. The Aussies were everything they were advertised to be. Warm, sweet, bawdy, affectionate, open, inclusive, generous, curious, sexy, and fun. The first night of my show was a deluge of Biblical proportions, 50 mile an hour winds, lashings of hard rain like the goddesses were whipping the earth in an S&M frenzy. The phones in the theater rang off hooks, and I kept hearing people saying, “No, the shows are going. No, they ARE going on.” As I prepared backstage for my Australian debut, I was interrupted when I stepped into a large puddle where the torrential, relentless rain had pounded its way in. As I dried my feet, and I listened to the tsunami crash down on the Gold Coast, I tried not to take it personally. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Have I offended the gods and goddesses in some way. But somehow people did manage to show up. I did three nights, we had great crowds, and they were lovely. I met more performers, I met people from all over the Gold Coast, and again I was quite sad to go home. Back of course overjoyed to be back in the U S of A. My time on the road and overseas was mind expanding and soul growing. It made me realize how much I want Junior Bush out of office, and that I have to do something about it. At this point America is s a dirty word in some parts of the world. I now prefer when I’m overseas to say I’m from California. But even this is tainted, as now we are tarred with the legacy of the Terminator Governor. This has got to change. In the rest of the world, you really feel like you’re part of the rest of the world. There’s none of that love-it-or-leave-it shit in Europe. They have Euros in Europe. I was also most happy to see that on three different continents, people understood and responded to my very American though apparently universal story of a boy on his own trying to get by. From grrrrrrrrrls in clubs, bourgeois literarti in Europe, dating couples Down Under, queers in bars, UK grannies, SF trannies, tattooed students, mothers and brothers and sisters and husbands and sons and wives. And I met people who have become a part of me, amazing people who made me laugh and marvel and brought great joy into my world, which has become so much bigger. For this, and for all of it, I am so grateful. The HBO deal is being hammered out by lawyers, hammering being the operative word. Me and Arielle will now finish the book Putting Your Passion Into Print. We teach PYPIP again at Stanford. I’m finishing up my a novel, a memoir about my time at Chippendale’s, and I’m polishing up a young adult novel. Then in late April, Xaviera Hollander is bringing me to Amsterdam for about 10 shows. Then to the Brighton Theatre Fest, then three more dates in England. In Philadelphia in June. But here now, it’s great to be home with Milo and Arielle.

3 weeks in England and it only rained three times which i take as sign from god that we are leading a blessed life. From london to bath to yeovil to chester to ilkley to howarth to yorkshire to newcastle to edinborough back to newcastle back to london. The vast barren expanses of the lonely romantic moors where you could practically hear Heathcliff crying out in anguished tortured to Cathy - Fireworks on Guy Fawkes day in Bath - this I really love by the way, Guy Fawkes tried to blow up parliament and they have a national holiday for him - it’d be like having Benedict Arnold Day, a very funny old lady told me, "Too bad he didn’t do a better job of it!" - cows herded right past our car on a tiny country road by an incredibly R. Crumb looking woman cowherder - scones and clotted cream and jam and tea and honey and crustless cucumber sandwiches at Castle Combe in a serious 17th century castle (fantastic golf course by the way, old and green and enormous hills looking out over the most beautiful bucolic countryside, ponies nuzzling me up the path on the way to the 18th tee box, and the highlight of my trip, a downhill 307 yard drive on a par four which rolled to within 10 feet of the cup, missed the eagle, tapped in the birdie)- a sheep sitting like a fleecy buddah in the middle of the 12th fairway at ilkley - a ferret eating the guts out of a bunny on the 8th fairway at Islington (an omen apparently, I shot my worst round, I stopped keeping track at 100 on the 13th hole when I chipped back and forth over the green too many times to mention in polite company) - so many sausages and beans and eggs O my god and so much great indian food - the curries the lamb the chicken the cardomum - and visiting newcastle, my roots, was truly inspiring, the thick geordie accents, all my relatives were so sweet and lovely to us, there is a feeling of family and community there which I do not find in america, many of the people having never been more then 10 miles from the house in which they were born. We asked one man how to get to london and he said, "Ya gan up t’ the roondaboot, tayke a left, then, no no ya cannit gan that way - ya gan throo the roondaboot, then when ya see wor Tetchie wi’ his auld dog Wonky, ya gan 3 more streets an’ tayke a left, right? No, no, that doesn’t gan through. Ehn, ya know, I divn’t think ya can get to London from here." - Watching the England v Scotland football matches - in Edinborough all the men clad in tartan kilts and royal blue Scotland uniform tops getting totally tanked before the match - getting a really cool pair of shoes - giving our leftovers to a homeless guy wrapped in a blanket on a bridge in scotland, he looked kind of stunned and said, "For me?" and he gazed up so incredibly astonished and grateful which is frankly how you want a homeless person to look when you give them something, they have a much more civilized class of homeless in The UK I must say - the most romantic walk over the river thames with a full moon shining down and the lights of london twinkling, it was just so beautiful - saw "the ratcatcher", a scottish filmm which I would highly recommend - and by the way if you ever need directions in london, ask a hansom cab driver, they should throw out parliament and fill it with hansom cab drivers, that would put england back on the map - by the way if you’re in london a great course to play is sandy lodge, 45 minutes from central london and exquisitely maintained - at harrods a spice girl wannabe with long straight blond hair wearing aqua and black boots so loud they jammed radar, turned to us at a cash register and said, "I think you should go to another register, this is going to take a very long time." The woman at the next register told us Rude Spice had asked her for "The most expensive biscuits in the store." - in coxlodge, where my father was born ad raised, we went to the Legion pup (one cousin was working there, the other refused to go, claiming he didn’t want to get Legionaire’s Diseace) on Saturday night. It was odd, the women outnumbered the men by at least 2 to 1, we thought, what’s all this then, and the emcee, in huge black and white trousers with a black and white fright wig (arielle sais, "david, that would you be you if your parents hadn’t moved to america) introduced 5 members of the Gateshead Fire Department, who did the most amazing strip tease I have ever witnessed, and as most of you know I have witnessed enough strip teases to last a hundred lifetimes. Turns out it was full monty night at the Legion. And they did the full monty. They were a bit clumsy, a little overweight, but had a commitment and passion which I found intoxicating. And one of them had the smallest willy I have ever seen on a man. Now that is courage under fire. - so a grand time was had by all, and we’re in nyc until december 1, then back to la - love and kisses, d

911 said the sign as we edged into the central Oregon town of Sisters.  We weren’t sure if that was the population, or a cry for help.  It was Saturday afternoon, and we were booked into Paulina Springs Book Cmpany as part of our Putting Your Passion Into Print Tour.  In fact we had put together this event to sell our books Satchel Sez: the World, Wit and Wisdom of Satchel Paige, and Pride & Promiscuity: the Lost Sex Scenes of Jane Austen, because our publishers, Simon & Schuster, and Random House, had told us it would be very difficult to do a successful event in a bookstore revolving around Satchel Paige or Jane Austen, both of whom are dead, and most likely will remain so.  But Kate Cerino at Paulina Springs seemed to think differently, and had insisted on doing an event about Satchel Paige, instead of Passion Into Print.  So there we were.

Bacheloretts, Bulging G-Strings, & Dick-Filled Lap Dances: Me & Nica Do the Boys of Hollywood Men & Deconstruct the State of Male Stripping in the New Millenium

Rumors of the death of male stripping in America are greatly exaggerated.  I know, because recently on a dark dank Saturday night, I took the Queen of LA Stripper Intelligensia, 5’10” Private Dancer/Nordic goddess Nica Jensen, to the seedy sweet scrotum of Hollywood, Arena Nightclub, Santa Monica & Highland, where The Hollywood Men were reportedly going to be shakin and bakin their moneymakers, while frenzied females shriek & wave seas of money for dick-filled lap dances.  Needless to say, me and Nica are highly skeptical.  We’re early.  

Buy the book.

HAPPY 100th BIRTHDAY, SATCHEL!
Satchel Sez
The Wit, Wisdom, and World of Leroy “Satchel” Paige
by David Sterry and Arielle Eckstut

This whole mad shitski started at NBA’s crib, which is seven shades of narsty, with, like, black banana peels and nacho Dorito fossils from 1984 buried under three layers of tall boys, with this skanko-funk-o-rama hangin so thick you can taste it. NBA, naturally, he’s toasted like a bagel. Me, I’m layin low cuz my main squeeze Squeegie had totally tweaked my shit, an I hadda meet Harry Three Balls at Muscle Beach at midnight, so I thought what the fuck, right? I’m workin on a most worthy stick of Slim Jim, the spicy beefy jerky salty meat treat. NBA, who can’t d-up for shit, has no j, an the weakest wackest tweakiest tude in Venice, the home of weak wack tweaky tudes. Interesting note: even though NBA wears size 15s, seriously, dude’s got canoes at the end of his pegs, Wannabe, she’s this freaky deaky baby I sometimes do a hang with, she tells me the brother-man is surprisingly light in the breadbasket department, which pissed Wannabe off no end, cuz she likes her man to be packin serious meat, which was the only reason she was doin a hang with NBA in the first place, cuz she hates the sad-sack ruckerty-ruck.